


Chinese Whispers

by elixirsoflife



Series: fade to black [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Absolutely no incest, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, Community: HPFT, I think?, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Regulus Black, Sirius Black and Regulus Have a Complicated Relationship, Substance Abuse, The Blacks Are Gangsters, Time Skips, i need to make that clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixirsoflife/pseuds/elixirsoflife
Summary: Here is Regulus’ worst-kept secret: he loves his older brother.[sequel/spin-off to Shackle Me]





	Chinese Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> This is indulgence. Most of my things are indulgence, but this in particular is. You'll need to have read Shackle Me (part 2 of this series) to understand what's going on and there WILL be spoilers for that fic in here, but you don't need to have read Ice Baby.
> 
> It's about Regulus and his relationship with Sirius. Basically, the boy be confused as fuck when it comes to his brother (whether he hates him or not) and the fic is essentially him trying to detangle all that ish. Plus a small dose of Black family dynamics and Regulus' place in it. Please don't analyse it too closely lmao

Secrets are peculiar, aren’t they?

Intangible things, woven from whispered words and the gentle press of flesh against marble as their holders tiptoe around them. They can’t be held, but they can be locked away or swapped or wielded by the most dexterous of men. Such strange objects they are, but they’re everywhere Regulus goes.

He is a Black, after all. Secrets are what Blacks deal in.

Regulus is a novice to the game they play. Growing up, he was an expert in dealing with them, naturally picking up the habit of appearing to say a lot without revealing much at all; even as a child, he knew that being a Black meant knowing when to seal his mouth shut and how to keep the rest of the world at a distance. His tongue tasted lies like nectar. His mother’s health, his brother’s well-being, his father’s infinite love – all so sweet in his mouth, so tantalising as they swelled in his throat. He was spoiled rotten with ambrosia.

But boyhood has abandoned him now. He’s officially eighteen years old, a little fish in a big pond, fins brushing against the likes of belugas and sharks. His aunts and uncles, his cousins and their associates, they’re all so much _better_ at this sport than he is. Lies are what they live on; lies are what they live for. Smiles perched on their lips, they reassure him that he’ll soon be the same way.

And maybe he will.

But until then, here is Regulus’ worst-kept secret: he loves his older brother.

* * *

 He lied.

Truthfully, it’s a bit more complex than that.

* * *

Is it possible to both love and hate someone?

He supposes he shouldn’t be asking that when he already knows the answer. Perhaps he should rephrase the question, alter it for another one. Maybe Regulus should tip his head back, gaze as blank as his bedroom ceiling, and ask: is it possible to love someone wholeheartedly? Are there people out there who love without restraint or regret, who feel nothing but the positive oblivion of loving someone without question?

Love is so ugly.

Songs will promise you a different story. The great romances will aid them, nod along with the cute lyrics and awestruck adoration. Love is pure, they claim. Nothing compares to the kiss of a significant other or the proportions a mother’s heart will swell to when she sees her child.

But if that’s true, then his father wouldn’t come home with the scent of another woman’s perfume and his mother’s mouth wouldn’t kiss the rim of countless whiskey bottles instead of her children’s cheeks. And she wouldn’t despise Sirius for looking too much like her husband or have punished him for falling in love with a boy, soulmate or not. And Regulus wouldn’t be so confused all the time, so lost and so listless.

The songs lie.

Love is not pure. It does not remain untarnished in a world torn apart by war and devastation and the rest of humanity’s imperfections. It is merely another face of the same old coin; on the other side exists hate. You cannot have one without the other, no matter how much you try to ignore it.

See, Regulus loves his parents.

He loves that they brought him into a world where he’s never had hunger claw at his stomach. He loves that they indulged him with anything he ever wanted as a child and that his mother used to walk around the house with Regulus perched on her hip, dismissing the nanny to wherever Sirius happened to be. He loves that she cooed about how handsome he was, even when his brother burned far brighter off to the side.

Love for them exists as an instinct. A reflex, an innate response to each proud smile, each song of praise. It’s nestled in his heart, a cluster of cells that plays along to the pace of his pulse. Unquestionable.

Regulus kind of hates his parents too.

His father, rarely there in childhood, though he sticks around now to groom his only son for the family business. His mother who warped beyond recognition as his youth depleted. The way they deliberately goad and provoke each other, knowing just where to poke their fingers to piss the other off, until they come together in a tussle of passion and fury or fall apart like two halves of a heart. He hates that they built a house from Kensington bricks instead of a home.

Mostly he hates the fact that his heart aches for his big brother – his stupid big brother who never knew when to quit, who rebelled against their legacy and yearned for more and found that in a boy with honeysuckle eyes, who used to pull Regulus close whenever their parents argued a little too fiercely – even after all this time. Hates that his father came back from Osaka one day and told him that he could never speak to his brother again and the way his mother clumsily cupped his face to mumble that she only ever loved Regulus in the first place.

He hates that they drove Sirius away.

He hates that Sirius chose to leave.

He hates that he helped it happen. 

* * *

Regulus meets Barty when he’s twenty years old.

* * *

 

The boy standing in front of him, bug-eyed and jittery like he’s tossed back a Red Bull and three espressos, is a year younger and a spitting image of his mother. His hair curls against the nape of his neck in the same fashion and the cut of his heart-shaped face is delicate in a sickeningly fragile sort of way, almost as if his features couldn’t quite make their mind up about how they wanted to be. But that’s where the similarities end because Cordelia Crouch is a respectable member of the community and… well, Barty is here.

“It’s an honour to meet you, honestly,” he says. Regulus has to give it to him, his voice only trembles slightly. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

The words have no effect on Regulus. His left arm does not jolt in shock and the words inked there faintly do not correspond, nor do they suddenly darken to black. Barty Crouch Jr means nothing to him, other than the fact that his dad is a high-profile politician and befriending him is something the Blacks can benefit from.

Regulus snickers a little against the cardboard of his coffee cup. “I’m not my father, you know. You don’t need to talk to me like I’m from the fucking House of Lords or something.”

“Oh, I – “ Barty turns red. “Sorry. I just. I didn’t want to offend.”

“You won’t offend me,” he says casually. “If anything, it’d be Bella.”

The very mention of his cousin leaches all the colour from the other boy. Regulus doesn’t bother restraining his smirk. In the circles they run in, Bella’s a formidable woman already – hell, she’s a formidable woman in their _family_ , never mind wider society. Which is to say that she’s a fucking psycho and even Regulus is wary of her, but that doesn’t make it any less amusing to see other people shit their pants at her very name.

“Ah, yes…” he murmurs, fidgeting in his seat. “I’ve – heard about that.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t ever meet her anyway,” says Regulus, casually stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon. He adds wickedly, “Not unless you fuck up, that is.”

Barty shakes his head frantically. The very sight is dizzying, the boy achieving speeds that shouldn’t even be humanly possible in his eagerness and anxiety to please. “Don’t worry, I won’t fuck up! I promise you won’t be disappointed in me! I’m a worthy partner, you’ll see.”

Poor Barty Crouch Jr.

Nineteen years old and ambitious enough to resort to underhanded ways for his dreams, he doesn’t quite grasp that he’s selling his soul to a family of devils. But Regulus isn’t here to point out the obvious to someone too stupid to understand. He’s merely here to see the boy sign his name on the dotted line and throw away the pen.

As he sips on his coffee in a busy London café, he wonders whether Sirius would be proud of him.

* * *

There’s a five-lettered name attached to Regulus’. It’s a remote-control pad that dictates everything about him: who he sees, how he speaks, why he does what he does, what he’s growing up to be. The name is an ancient and proud one, boasting centuries of old money, _dirty_ money, and a legacy that he will never escape. Early on in life, he decided that the effort to do so would take too much out of him and opted not to.

His brother disagreed.

Where Regulus kept his head down when their mother was in one of her moods, Sirius relentlessly argued back. Where Regulus skulked in his room until the storm passed, Sirius bore the brunt of it over and over again, cheek bruised from the onslaught. Where Regulus embraced his surname because to do otherwise was to _suffer_ and urged his brother to do the same, Sirius vehemently refused.

The Black name was his shackle.

For their mother, it was and is everything. She gave up her life for the family, married a man who refused to love her, simply because biology declared that they were meant to be, and birthed Sirius before she could back out. Society and surnames have trapped her ever since, omnipresent reminders of the consequences of escape. If _she_ could sacrifice her sanity to be a Black, so too can her sons.

And Regulus, who has never known anything but his mother’s tenderness, has long since accepted this fate.

Not like Sirius who fell for a boy in between aisles of books and over low library tables. Who was ordered to abandon his love and his soulmate for his surname, who refused their mother’s demands, and ran away for it. Who’s probably somewhere in university, drinking and laughing and skating on ice for that god-awful sport Regulus could never understand.

Half the time, Regulus doesn’t know whether to abhor or admire him for it.

Sirius has always been an entity unto himself.

As a child he always misbehaved in class, hands sticky with paint and report card riddled with crosses. He sought out the loudest, cheekiest boy in his year and promptly made him his best friend, no matter how much their mother raged about the colour of his skin. He spent summers away from the walls of their house, joined a sports team considered undignified for people of their standing, and easily sucked up attention from the rest of the school.

Growing up, Regulus shamelessly admired him for it. But somewhere along the way, the admiration bled into exasperation, tempered by his increasing awareness of the downwards spiral their mother was on. He just didn’t understand why Sirius couldn’t _listen_ and play along, why he had to make everything so much more difficult. By the time he left, Regulus didn’t know what he even felt towards his brother anymore.

Five years later and he still doesn’t, to be frank.

There’s a knot in his chest where simple love used to be and a lump in his throat when he thinks of the brother he’s lost. Sometimes he lies in bed after a long day, slacks sticky against his skin, and wonders whether he was just jealous.

Whether he still is.

* * *

 The words on his left arm aren’t very special. A simple question composed of six words: _Excuse me, is this seat taken?_ At twenty-one years old, they’re still a few shades lighter than his skin and his soulmate remains a faceless figure somewhere in the future. Truth be told, Regulus doesn’t give whoever they are much thought. He has neither the patience nor time.

Days in his life are long and laborious. He hops from one end of the city to the other as the hours lumber by, learning what secrets his father hid from him as a child. He meets the men who used to slip into the Black study for long, hushed meetings, this time as business partners rather than a kid shyly accepting fifty-pound notes from clean hands. He travels between cities and countries with his Uncle Cygnus and threatens people who need threatening. He lies and he collects secrets.

Here’s a secret for you all, one that hasn’t seen the light of day: he thinks about Barty more than he should.

There’s nothing remarkable about him. His face still hasn’t made its mind up about what it wants to be and he can’t sit still to save his life. When he speaks, the words are nasal and pinched, an effect exacerbated by the educated accent that forms each of them. He’s addicted to coke and will probably overdose before he hits thirty-five.

That doesn’t stop butterflies from fluttering into existence in Regulus’ stomach.

Sometimes when they’re stretched out on some shitty bed, blunt loose in their fingers and minds hazy, Regulus will notice the moles that decorate the other boy’s face. Like constellations he wants to map out with his mouth, they’ll stand stark and proud. He’ll wonder whether it’ll hurt to trace them, even if it’s just with his fingers, and then will remember the disgust he regarded his brother with all those years ago and how the house shook with his mother’s fury at the news.

(What was it she called Sirius? Oh yes, a good-for-nothing, unnatural freak.

It’ll definitely hurt, then.)

Love is ugly.

His feelings for Barty are far from love, their magnitude miniscule in comparison to the concept the world obsesses over, but they still exist. Sometimes he sees Barty and his heart stutters, forgets how to function for a handful of moments. Sometimes their hands will brush and he’ll imagine a world where he didn’t pull away, where he adjusted until their fingers were entwined. Sometimes they’ll grab lunch together and Regulus will privately view it as a date.

And then without fail, the guilt will follow.

Guilt that he feels this way about someone who is so clearly not his; guilt that he’s undermining the family name just by his very thoughts; guilt that he brought down a reckoning on his brother for doing the same. Perhaps this is fate’s way of punishing him for that very act. Karma well and truly striking him where it’ll hurt most.

He drowns in self-hatred daily.

* * *

Three months before Regulus turns twenty-three, his best friend meets his soulmate. It happens at a charity event that MP Bartemius Crouch Sr delivers a speech at when Barty holds a door open for a late guest and earns a partner for life in return. The woman is very pretty and respectable.

Regulus hates her on sight.

Two weeks later, he boards a one-way flight to Chicago with his father.

* * *

It takes nine years since Sirius left and his father taking a round of bullets to the chest for Regulus to make sense of the mess inside his head.

When the news of Orion Black’s death arrives, he bursts into tears at the kitchen table, heart swelling against the confines of his ribcage and then splintering to pieces. Grief hammers at the shards, kicking the sobs out of his chest and into the empty room. He loved his father, he truly did – but he also loathed him with an intensity he only grasps when the initial tears fade and leave behind a wave of relief.

His father is gone.

Regulus is _free_.

Calls are made continuously over the next few days, details and deals and arrangements finalised over thousands of miles and telephone wires. When he comes out on the other side, his Uncle Cygnus has emerged as the next leader of the Black family business and there’s an address scrawled hastily onto a scrap piece of paper Regulus found. He shouldn’t know it, but he’s made a bit of a habit of collecting secrets. In the past few years, he’s gotten pretty good at it too.

Here’s a secret most people know: he loves his brother.

For years, it was a love tainted by the poison of his own confusion. Regulus oscillated between flat-out admiration of Sirius’ courage, to guilt that he allowed his mother to treat him the way she did, to anger that Sirius enraged a woman who was being neglected and made a fool of by their own father. Underscoring it all was a deeply rooted, ugly envy that Sirius was even able to act how he did.

Ever since he was a young boy, Regulus has taken the easy route out. He conformed to the demands of the Black name, cultivating his cunning and learning the tricks of their trade because to do otherwise was to call on a reckoning. He convinced himself that loneliness was an acceptable substitute to a loving household, that muddled hatred was a healthy way to live. He followed his father’s footsteps because it was expected of him, even as he despised the man for ruining his wife. He devoted himself to the family because his mother did the same, even though it meant sacrificing his happiness.

And he didn’t help his brother in his time of need because he was too fucking scared.

Love can be an ugly thing, yes.

It does not always feel electric and heady or fill you up until you’re weightless, rising towards the skies and beyond in happiness. Life can distort love beyond recognition, dirty it with the grittier realities of being human until the concept seems foreign and unattainable, a fleeting fancy from a dream. Love does not always exist in bursts of joy.

The beauty of love is not that it’s ‘pure’ and free from taint – it’s that it can last. Beyond the years of hurt and hatred, beyond the rift of lost time. Freedom from the chokehold that bound him has opened Regulus’ eyes to the not-so-distant possibilities that glimmer tantalisingly in the near future.

Less than twenty-four hours later, he stares Sirius in the face for the first time in years.

* * *

Here’s a well-known fact about Regulus: he loves his brother.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or thoughts, feel free to ask/comment! Kudos and comments make me happy :)


End file.
